The Mirage that Refuses to Disappear
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: Like a weed that can't stop growin'.


**Disclaimer:** All characters and locations belong to their respective owners.

_A/N: Revised 11/28/2011._

_Let me start out by saying that if there are any inaccuracies concerning the subject matter(s), I apologize. I'm no doctor (only Wikipedia and Google to help supplement info), but if I were I'd be putting my money to get training as a veterinary assistant._

_Teru, in my opinion, is one of those characters you either love, hate, or both. I admit that short dream sequence Saki has in Episode 3 makes me go "d'aaaaw", but every time I hear Teru publicly disown her sis it makes me want to grab a lucky rabbit's foot and poke her HARD. Between the eyes. Again and again and again._

* * *

**The Mirage that Refuses to Disappear**

* * *

"_Thou unrelenting past."  
_- William Cullen Bryant

"_My interest is in the future because I am going to be spending the rest of my life there."  
_- Charles F. Kettering

* * *

"It's starting to get friggin' packed out there," says Awai as she elbows her way into the lounge, kicking the door shut behind her. She bears trays of nachos and tacos, arms balancing finger-foods and a cardboard container of fountain drinks. "Good thing, too, I didn't even have ta wait in line."

Seiko sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. "You always buy more than we ask. Here, let me take these before you slip and spill everything." She gets up and removes the condiments from Awai, who laughs cheerfully and waves the girl off. You cringe as the sound scrapes the lining of your eardrums, makes your throat recoil and itch.

"Did you get any tea?" Takami asks in her droning lilt.

"Indeed I did!" Awai states almost proudly; she plops the Styrofoam cup in front of her bespectacled teammate. "Hope you like Lipton."

Takami frowns, disappointed. "It will have to do."

"Here's your Doc Pepper, Seiko; Buddha knows he's always in the house when we need him. And Sumi my soul sister, I got you Mountain Dew Voltage."

"Again?" Sumire parrots with a note of incredulity. "But I asked for Dasani."

"My dear, once you go blue you'll always know what to do. Besides, who needs water when your brain's runnin' on caffeine? My soul sister needs to be awake and alert when she starts pullin' out the losin' names for the Ass-Kicking Raffle."

"You are as crude as ever," Sumire admits dejectedly, and you grind your teeth at how low she has stooped. "And for the umpteenth time, stop calling me your soul sister. Sharing the same pronunciation as the name of your favorite band's pianist does not and will not ever make us so."

"Whatever your feelings may be, know that we are bonded by the spirit of our youth!" Awai leans across the table and clasps her hands with Sumire's, gazes into her eyes with disgustingly sweet ardor. "Senpai, there is no heart without you!" Dear Gods, when does the melodrama _end_?

Sumire smiles sheepishly. "I'm flattered. Ah, what about Teru? You didn't forget her, did you?" Knowing Awai, you wouldn't be surprised if she did.

"Of course not, Senpai! I've got something for everyone! Here, Terry," by force of will you try not to grimace at the horrendous nickname "there's popcorn shrimp, a cup of wasabi sauce, a twelve-ounce of G2, and a stick of Toblerone. Everything else is ambrosia before the fight, so let's huddle up—"

"Do we have to?" drawls Takami.

"_Yes_, we _have to_! _I'm_ the _taishou_!"

"Only for the individuals."

"We're playing in a mahjong tournament, not the Super Bowl." Seiko complains softly.

"We can worry about that later," says Sumire, ever the voice of reason (even when Seiko fails to do her part as damage control). "The vanguard match doesn't start for another hour. Let's eat the food Awai bought for us before it gets cold."

Awai nods vigorously, and you hope to whatever god is watching this scene makes her head pop up, reveals the rotting neglected core of her brain. "Indeed, indeed! Let's do as my soul sister says and eat 'til our stomachs are full and hearts freaking merry!" With that declaration the girl dips her chin and pops the plastic lid off the nacho tray. To your amazement, her head stays in place. Pity, you would have liked to see how bad the decay looked. Maybe scoop some in the wasabi cup when you're finished eating and donate it to science. It could lead to a breakthrough on finding a cure for stupid.

Oh well.

Even with the copious amounts of food spread out on the table, you stick to the shrimp and wasabi sauce. The Toblerone's stuffed in your breast pocket for later (you can't resist the power of almonds), the G2 screwed open but hardly touched (you'd rather have Blueberry-Pomegranate over Glacier Freeze). At least that brat Awai got some things right.

Everyone is keeping each other busy, making small talk – like, which American celebrity's going to fuck up next, who's going to catch the Giants-Swallows game this coming Monday, or if and when aliens will ever decide to take a pit stop in the good ole Land of the Rising Sun for once in their undefined lifetimes (as usual, it's Awai who's to blame for bringing up these ridiculous topics). The TV is on but at a low volume. The commentators are discussing notable key players from each competing school, make their personal picks on who'll progress through the individuals. You recognize a few names such as Kosegawa Shiromi, Atago Hiroe, Usuzumi Hatsume, Myenghoa Choi, Haramura Nodoka and Takei Hisa (and another girl, too, but you could give two shits about her).

Then there's your name, burbled from the lips of professionals who claim a lot of people are placing a lot of money on you climbing to the top of the mountain and staking your flag for the third consecutive year in a row. Of course they'd mention you. You're the star of this fucking show. Your goal is to blast your way through the competition and become number fucking one. You and your team are going to put up the best gods-damned fight Japan's ever going to see on live television and show those second-string fiddlers who is alpha dog around here. You're going to rock the mahjong world so hard off its axis, it'll make hanafuda look like go fish.

Yessiree. You're going to do a lot of things to those poor saps once you step onto the battlefield. Most of all, you're going to win. Losing is not an option, an unspeakable sin borderline on blasphemy. You _will_ win. You are—

"TERRY!" You wince, violently ripped from your thoughts at the mercy of Awai's blaringly loud yip.

You tear your gaze from the television screen and present her with your most serious, venomous glare. "What?" you ask. You're not in the mood for this shit.

Awai crinkles her nose as if she took a whiff of a disgusting odor. Probably the decay stewing in the pot she has for a brain. "Hey now, cap'n, no need to be sour. Just wanted to say you looked like you were sufferin' a bout of indigestion for a moment there."

"I was thinking," you say evenly, "on how to crush our opponents." If only you could crush this dimwit of a teammate's head into the wall, maybe knock the chip hanging off the old block back into place.

"You've got all day before your match starts!" the first-year clucks. She gestures at the cheese-splattered tray of nachos. "Here, have yourself some jala-whatchamacallits. These babies will light a fire in your heart, that's for sure!"

You glance down at the tray, and by just looking at the green peppers it makes your mouth tingle and salivate. As tempting as it is to reach out and chew the chip and seeds to mush, you know _without a doubt_ they're going to burn through your gut like acid, and a killer stomach ache is the last thing you want happening right as you're about to bitch-slap your opponents with Thirteen Orphans. Miyanaga Teru doesn't roll that way, wham bam thank you ma'am.

You shake your head and wave off your teammate's offer. "Have at 'em, I don't want any."

Awai just shrugs her shoulders. "If that's what ya want. More for me, anyway. The Oohashi gut can handle anything, even grade-10 diamonds!" And to make her point blatantly clear, she snags a tortilla chip loaded with seeded greens and pops it all in like a forklift toting pallets.

Takami stares over the rim of the Styrofoam cup, lips buttoned in a grimace. "You, Oohashi, are officially insane."

Sumire, the oh-so elegant princess, her jaw goes slack and falls so low you could fit a beehive in there. "How can you eat that? Doesn't it bother you?"

"Hell no!" the girl declares, and she proceeds to pull together of all things a _sandwich_ consisting of two chips and what's left of the peppers. "These are wasabi peas compared to the world's _hottest_ chili pepper."

"And what would that be?"

"Only the Naga Viper pepper! I bet it's so hot, why, if I gave it even the slightest nibble I'll spontaneously combust!"

"I bet it wouldn't stop you from trying one," says Seiko, who's used to the sudden change of topics. Who else can build immunity to Oohashi Awai than Matano Seiko?

There's a contemplative gleam in the girl's blue eyes as she mulls over the question. A moment later Awai shakes her head. "No," she says slowly. "No, I don't think it would." She picks up the nacho 'n' pepper sandwich and bites into it. Your mouth waters at the audible crunch her teeth make, but your intestines twitch as she inserts the remainder of the chips and chews, chews, _chews_ them down to corn mush and jalapeno juice spills down her throat and boy is your stomach doing an awfully slippery worm….

You look away and turn your attention to the television. Only now you wish you hadn't, because the commentators are talking about her, and they're taking note of the number of plus-minus scores she's secured during club activities (most likely they're reading the info right off the records). It's like pouring salt on a wound, only the salt's being dumped unceremoniously all over your skin, and it burns so much it's like dousing a baseball field with gasoline and throwing a lighted match from the highest stands.

Those bloody louts are getting their jollies off _way too much_ to be considered neutral to the competition. Not even PG.

It's like Hell's raving hardcore in your chest cavity, strobe lights flashing like that old Pokemon episode that a bunch of kids to the hospital. And your head—by the Gods—those subwoofers are getting _down_, and it is splitting your skull open so freaking badly.

God damn heartburn. God damn headache. God damn it all, stop talking about her!

"Miyanaga Saki, eh?" Awai drawls out, nibbling away on a ball of shrimp she must have swiped from your tray when you weren't paying attention. "I wonder how good she is."

"She's nothing to worry about," you tell her off-handedly. You unscrew the G2's cap and take a long pull. "They're putting too much hype into her abilities."

"The one we should be keeping an eye on is Nodocchi," Tamaki agrees, who's nursing the Lipton tea. It takes all your strength and willpower not to reach across the table and reward the girl with a rare one-armed noogie.

"What about Takei Hisa?" Seiko asks. "She's got those 'bad' waits."

"She thinks she's hot shit, but she's not invincible," you add smoothly. "Even trapdoor spiders are prone to miscalculate the execution of their traps."

"Right now our focus should be on Rinkai and the other schools," says Sumire. "We'll get our chance with Kiyosumi should they play their hand well throughout the tournament."

"You really think they'll pull it off?" Seiko poses to her, and somewhere among the smoke billowing across the dance floor and the racketeering of pumping bass, a switch clicks on in your brain.

Now that you think about it, Sumire's been talking about Kiyosumi a lot more recently. Ever since Shiraitodai secured their inter-high spot in the preliminaries. You recall Sumire tossing the newspaper onto the desk, scanning the names representing Kiyosumi, studying the moment capturing _her_ miraculous victory, tracing the Hiragana that made _her_ name whole and solid and oh so real.

You didn't show it then, but when you had finished reading that article you couldn't believe _she_ had managed to even make it _past_ the prelims. She never was a good player, lost more games than you can count the dots of your old bedroom's popcorn ceiling; and when she did win— well, you win some and you lose some, and by the time new-casters and partying city-goers welcomed the New Year that little raccoon piggy bank you got for her sixth birthday hadn't any paper or coin in his belly to pound his big flopping schlong against.

Penny for your thoughts, Teru-onee-chan? No thanks, says the girl with the serpent's gaze. I don't want no heart from you.

—_**i'Ve LoNg TOrn mInE oUT—**_

"—let's just say I have my reasons," Sumire finishes telling Seiko. There's a glint in her eyes, a gleam you're familiar and unfamiliar with, and it confounds you how you can be both at once and not place a name or idea on it.

Your mind's speeding down the stretch of mental highway, pushing zero to sixty to seventy to eighty in a heartbeat, weaving through brain cell traffic and flipping off neuron pedestrians, hands away from the steering wheel and reaching to snag the right word and stamp it with a capital ABCDEFG to Z. You grope and you grope and you grope, and that's when you realize there _is_ no term for it, a blank slot in a vault of memories and glass fragments, and who does she think she is sticking Shiraitodai with that finger of hers natural pink and polished to a spit-shine like she's already won the fucking trophy we're a team you bitch if you wanna suck off the national audience go play in the individuals that's a good girl let me wipe the floor of your empathy and her eyes and her smile and her voice and Gods-damn it Saki why do you have to persist—

Nothing makes sense, you want to whine. Nothing I say or do will make things right. Nothing, I tell ya, nothing. Nothing nothing leave me alone nothing nothing it's not worth the hassle nothing nothing nothing—

"I'm going to go take a walk," you say out loud, eliciting inquisitive, dumbfounded expressions in your direction. You rise to your feet, sudden and a little too fast for your liking, grab your jacket off the chair and pull it on. The tinkle-bell clinking of its chains and zippers do little to ease the storm raging inside and out.

As you open the door and cross the threshold, Sumire calls for you. "Come back soon," she says. "You know how thick those crowds can get."

"I'll keep that in mind," you say over your shoulder, and with a tug on the knob you confine the world to its four walls and (popcorn) ceiling and leave it behind (to sit and be sullied by winds bearing sand and dust and watery salt).

—_**yOU CaN'T RuN foREveR—**_

You jam your hands in your pockets and start walking. The halls are naturally quiet, intermittently broken by the drone of overhead fluorescent lights, footsteps contained in leather-taut Oxfords imported from the West. You jingle-jangle round corners that had to have been inspired by those really old Microsoft Windows screensavers with the moving maze, brush by folk too ignorant and too much in a hurry to say "excuse me".

Whatever. They're busy. They've got some last-minute kinks to work out, got a show to run. They won't be ignoring you once the dice roll and the tiles are flying from your fingertips. It's gonna be all yours. Everyone'll be talking about you for years to come. They'll remember you as Miyanaga Teru, the girl who won the inter-high tourney three years TOPS; the girl who went from That Emo Kid to Tigress of the Tiles. You're gonna fight the war, and you're going to WIN IT.

—_**tHAt WOn'T stOp HeR—**_

—_**SHe'lL NeVEr lET yoU gO—**_

—_**liKE A wEeD THaT caN'T sTOp GRoWIn'—**_

You want to shake your head, want to roll it round and around, rock it back and forth, want to tear (bloody) clumps of hair from your scalp, rip those thoughts from the grey goo think-tank and grind it down to mush with sharp twists of your heel so it blends nicely with the teal carpet and no one's wise enough to recognize the indefinable crap sticking to the soles of their shoes. But you don't.

You're getting yourself worked up over nothing. The past is past. She's just another obstacle to conquer. Everyone's an obstacle, a triathlon of Olympic proportions.

Don't be a pussy. You can do this. You're Miyanaga Teru. You are and always will be Number One.

You can do this.

You can

—_**nOtNoTnoT—**_

do this.

You shake your head violently, left-right, left-right, left-right, fiery hair whipping like an unstable winds. Some fresh air will do. Yeah. Yeah, that'll do the trick. Gotta have a clear mind for those matches. Can't have the other schools thinking otherwise and go for broke. No, no, no.

You remember you've got the Toblerone in your pocket. You pull the stick into the open, peel away the wrapper, break off a piece and draw it to your lips—

"Onee-chan!"

You jump, almost dropping the candy in the process. You look around, look behind you. She's not there. No one is.

"Onee-chan!" Again; louder, closer. You will your legs to move, and they carry you to a T-section of corridors—one on your left and one continuing in front of you. "Over here!"

The left path, then. You round the corner slowly, treading lightly as if a single step will set off a chain reaction of incendiary explosions.

She's not there, either. No one is.

Huh.

It's probably the incoherent babble of conversation that's buzzing yonder. This is the first floor, and with a vague recollection of the building's layout it dawns on you that you're nearing the lobby. It's there that as a person walks in she would see the gigantic LED TV dominating the wall, featuring interchanging screens of up to date player/team scores, live commentary feed and official matches, and commercials displaying company sponsorship.

She never was good at directions. It's likely the kid got herself lost trying to find her team's room and, whether by stroke of luck or reversal of fortune, she knows you're here (who doesn't?) and went to seek you out for advice and sisterly comfort.

You're not here for that. Maybe Mom is, but you're not. You don't want it, and you won't accept it.

—_**ShE's nOT WoRtH iT—**_

You look at the piece of chocolate in your hand. It's melting. You pop it in your mouth and chew, relish the crack of salted almonds, sweet chocolate coating a barren tongue. Break off another bit, toss it to pearly grinders, and repeat.

The stick is halfway gone when you enter the lobby. It's crowded, just as Awai said. People walking, people talking; people sitting on three-piece leather suites; people waging stakes, making bets, taking gambles; people with their mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters standing in the center of a thriving mass, necks craned back, eyes glued to the television as if they're staring into the towering, blank visage of AM the supercomputer.

You consider sneaking round the crowd and out the doors, maybe walk the building perimeters once or twice, and you do just that by ghosting toward the walls of the entrance. Bad enough you have put up with mobs of squealing fangirls and persistent magazine reporters.

"So, Kokaji-pro, what do you think about those rumors concerning Miyanaga Teru and Kiyosumi fan favorite, Miyanaga Saki?"

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a sec. Stop the fucking presses.

Rumors? What _rumors_?

You whirl around. There is a pair of large, mounted speakers on either side of the screen, and it's through the subwoofers the voices of Fukuyo Kouko and Kokaji Suzu – the play-by-play commentators – are magnified tenfold. The cameras are on them, presented in spectacular hi-def and larger than life, like deities revealing their true forms to the puny ant-sized mortals.

"There's only _one_ rumor, Fukuyo-chan," says the dark-haired Suzu, who's absentmindedly stirring her tea with a spoon.

"Aha, my apologies, I must have misheard. But anyhow, what are your thoughts? Do you agree with what Nishida-san says?"

Nishida? The woman who complimented you on your victory at the preliminaries? _That_ Nishida? What did she…? When did she…? You move away from the double doors and creep to the back of the small crowd, hoping someone doesn't have the incentive to turn in the opposite direction and see you.

"Well, Fukuyo-chan," Suzu begins demurely, "when I read the article, I speak for everyone when I say I was very skeptical. It was just last month when Miyanaga Teru clarified to Nishida-san she had no relation to Miyanaga Saki, and like everyone I took her words to heart."

Kouko nods vigorously. "Yes, I remember seeing the initial posting on the magazine's website. I believe there's a poll somewhere on there that states the majority of voters found the connection between Teru-san and Saki-san to be merely coincidence, as they both share the same surname."

"Among other crude comments," Suzu adds flatly, and Kouko forces laughter. "Going back to our topic, you can imagine I was surprised at what I saw on the cover of this month's issue."

"That Nishida Junko learned from an undisclosed source that Miyanaga Teru suffers from a mild, possibly severe, case of paranoid schizophrenia, which she was diagnosed following her parents' separation and…a laundry list of interpersonal conflicts that go back a few years."

What the fuck…?

Kokaji-pro purses her lips together. "It sounds…outlandish, doesn't it?"

Kouko scoffs. "Not just outlandish; as soon as the issue was released the digital world exploded. Media outlets are reporting such a drastic increase in visitor traffic their servers crashed. Bloggers and professional players like Fujita-pro are already questioning the article's authenticity, more or less the credibility of Nishida-san's source."

"Well, there is speculation that it was Teru-san's mother, Miyanaga Haruna, who also happens to be the coach for Shiraitodai Gakuen's mahjong club, who released the information."

"But if that's true, if all this is _indeed_ true, it would be considered a breach in patient confidentiality."

"Correct. However, since the publication, Miyanaga-san has denied reports of her daughter's alleged diagnosis. To the best of my knowledge, Teru-san could not be reached for comment."

"I've also heard tell Eisui All-Girls Gakuen has been scrutinized for smearing Shiraitodai as a result of the former's defeat in last year's inter-high tournament. Some members of Eisui's branch families claim that Teru-san's – quote on quote – 'brutal' performance is to blame for placing Jindai Komaki's health in a delicate position. I wonder what Miyanaga-san thinks of it."

"Hmm, I do remember seeing Miyanaga-san's interview on the news just the other day. She brushed off Eisui's claims, stating Teru-san played like all the other competing team members at the time and will continue to do so in this year's Nationals."

"Well I doubt these recent developments will deter Miyanaga Teru and Team Torahime from performing at their best. Many professional mahjong circles have deemed Shiraitodai to be the top contender in the finals…."

The two commentators continue talking, and some of the people around you start moving toward their respective destinations. You should have moved, too, should have thumbed your nose up at the screen, should have shrugged your shoulders at the absurdity that's been pulled up from the rumor well. It shouldn't be a cause for concern; your mom said so, and so did Kokaji-pro and Fukuyo-san. Eisui's just a bunch of bible-thumping fabricants with poles lodged up their asses, anyway.

Except time's stopped. No, no, let's rephrase that: time has _ceased to exist_. The world _ceases_ to exist. All these faceless, nameless passersby roaming in and out of sight? They're shadows, ghosts of an ancient tomorrow. This torrent of nonsense burbles drifting from one ear out the other? They're echoes of a decrepit house that's seen forgotten stories, better days lost to memory.

This girl who's standing alone with an inscrutable gaze and a stick of chocolate melting in her grasp? That's you.

It's you.

It's all about you.

No.

No. That's not me.

That's not me.

That can't be me.

I'm a good girl.

I'm a good girl.

Who the hell is doing this? Who is spreading these cruel, baseless lies? Why?

Why? What did I ever do to you?

I'm a good girl.

What have I done to make you do this?

I'm a good girl.

I don't understand.

I'm a good girl.

Nothing makes sense.

I'm a good girl.

NOTHING DOES!

—_**i'M a gOoD GirL!—**_

"Onee-chan! Onee-chan! Thank goodness I found you!" You turn around, and weaving in and out of the dispersing crowds a familiar girl with chestnut hair and ruby red eyes. She emerges like a newborn from the womb and trips over her own feet, but she picks herself back up before gravity can capture her.

You stare at her. Watch her.

She gives a sheepish laugh, rubs the back of her neck. She looks up and offers you a pretty, girlish smile. "You're very hard to find, you know that? I was hoping we could for a walk together and, well, talk about old times."

You stare.

And stare.

"What do you say—?"

You drop the stick of Toblerone and lunge at her. Your weight smacks into her like a wrecking ball, and she cries out when her back hits the floor. You lock your legs against the gates of bony hips, lean over her tiny, nubile frame. Fingers wrap around a slender neck, seize the net of soft, unblemished flesh, and squeeze.

YOU!

YOU DID THIS, DIDN'T YOU!

YOU HAD THIS ALL PLANNED OUT, RIGHT FROM THE START! DIDN'T YOU?

_**DIDN'T YOU?**_

YOU BITCH!

YOU BITCH!

YOU'RE ALL AGAINST ME! YOU AND MOTHER DEAREST AND ALL YOUR LOSER FRIENDS! YOU ALL HAVE IT IN FOR ME!

STOP YOUR WHINING! STOP YOUR MOPING! STOP YOUR NAGGING! STOP TRYING TO FOLLOW EVERY FUCKING STEP I TAKE!

I DON'T WANT YOU!

I DON'T NEED YOU!

I DON'T WANT ANYTHING FROM YOU!

LEAVE ME ALONE!

—_**tIGhTeR—**_

LEAVE ME ALONE!

—_**TiGhtEr—**_

LEAVE ME ALONE!

—_**SQUEEZE TIGHTER!—**_

LEAVE ME ALONE—!

You awake with a gasp, heart hammering a million miles an hour. You're greeted with an unfamiliar ceiling, and you shield your eyes from the crown of light emanating above.

"Welcome back," says a smooth, velvet voice. Something moves in front of you and blocks the light. You lower your hand, and it's like an electric shock to your body that you see not Miyanaga Saki but—

"Sumire? Where am—"

"You're in the team lounge." The lounge? You sit up on a couch you remember laying on and glance around. Indeed, you're back in the room you had left just minutes ago. It's just you and Sumire; where Awai, Seiko, and Takami went you don't have the slightest clue.

"How did I get here?" you ask in a sleep-heavy voice. That's odd…why does it sound so…flat?

Sumires harrumphs, stares down her nose with those dark, penetrating irises. "You don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

Now that stare turns downright _nasty_. "The _mess_ you've _made_."

Mess? "What are you talking about?" Pause. It's starting to come back, piece by piece. "I only went for a walk. Nothing…nothing happened."

"Something _did_ happen," Sumire states firmly, brow furrowing beneath a curtain of black hair. "You physically assaulted Jindai Komaki of Eisui All-Girls _in public_."

A pang of surprise flares through your extremities. "I…I what?" You shake your head. "No. No, that's not true—"

"Yes, it is. There were witnesses. They said you pushed Jindai to the floor and started strangling her. They said you were screaming, calling her uncouth names and telling her to leave you alone. They said she tried to get you to stop, but you wouldn't relent; you just keep tightening your grip. And to make matters worse, they heard you call her _Saki_."

This is when your world loses stability and one by one implodes into apocalyptic avalanches. "What…?"

"That's not all," Sumire continues. "Coach Miyanaga, your mother, was called in by Eisui's head coach to discuss the consequences of your actions."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Sumire sighs. "It can mean a lot of things. From what I've overheard, Eisui is considering pressing misdemeanor charges. Then again, they may not go through it and allow Coach Miyanaga to decide what to do with you. In which case, there is a chance you might be forced to withdraw from the Nationals and placed in involuntary commitment. If that should happen, then it's most likely possible that Shiraitodai will have to forfeit its position. At this point, anything can happen, but I do know without a doubt we will not be coming out unscathed."

An impregnable silence descends. Sumire's eyes soften, the tension formed upon her lips loosening. She averts her gaze to the door, and you move your head as it settles on what resides beyond the threshold. You don't hear any voices, but a part of you knows your mom and Eisui's coach must be locked in a deep discussion. They must be talking to Jindai Komaki, too, must be trying to see if you've left any lasting damage because everyone in the mahjong world knows you're the reason Jindai's the way she is now, the reason why she's not as active in extracurricular activities and why she's not thinking as quickly on her feet as she used to be.

Your teammates must be talking, too. They must be thinking the same thing that's on everyone's mind: that Miyanaga Teru really isn't right in the head; I knew something was wrong with that girl; we should have believed Nishida-san; Miyanaga Teru should be removed from society; Miyanaga Teru should be locked in a straitjacket and never be blessed with the light of day ever again; Miyanaga Teru is a monster, a villain, a cold-hearted bitch, _A FAKE_, stop sponsoring this nutcase, I don't want my kids looking up to a goofball, she has not only shamed mahjong but she has shamed herself, get rid of her….

Sumire must be thinking that right now. Hell, _Saki_ is probably thinking that way, too. Gods, what kind of a person are you? If she didn't know about your denying her, she does now.

Fuck, Teru. _Fuck_. What the fuck were you thinking? What the fuck is _wrong with you_?

(Me? What is wrong with _you_? I thought you didn't give two shits about her….)

"This could have been prevented," Sumire says aloud. You look at her but she doesn't look at you; rather, her gaze is still on the door. Still soft, still blue, just as you remember when you two met for the first time. "I should have made sure you took your medication."

"But…I did take it. You told me to."

Sumire shakes her head. "No. You didn't. Maybe you forgot. Maybe you didn't want to. Maybe you just wanted to piss off your mom and me and prove to us that Miyanaga Teru didn't need medications to rule her life. I don't know." She sighs again, sad and world-weary, and runs a hand through her hair. "What I do know is that I should have watched you better."

"I'm not a child, Sumire," you tell her, and your words carry in the massive quiet bathing the lounge. "I can take care of myself."

"Can you?" Sumire twists her body, holds you in the periphery of her vision. "Can you really?"

"I know I can. Don't you think so?"

No answer.

"Sumire? I said do you think I can—"

"You don't have to repeat yourself," gently, firmly. "I heard you."

"Oh," shyly, so very unlike you, but this is Sumire you're talking to. She knows how to break you, how to put you back together again. "Then…?"

Another sigh. Sumire glances at the door again and, when she sees that no one's going to pop in (and probably not any time soon), she sticks her hand beneath her shirt.

There's a sound like ripped Velcro straps. She pulls the object into the open and shows it to you. It's a slim, plastic container. There are characters on its cover, separate by an indent every half-inch. From right to left it reads in Hiragana: _Nichiyobi, Getsuyobi, Kayobi, Suiyobi,__Mokuyobi,__Kin'yobi,__Doyobi_. Sunday through Saturday.

"Do you see this?" she asks.

"Yes, I do," you say.

"Do you know what it is?"

"It's my pill box. For when I take my meds."

"Right. Look here." She slips her thumbs under the latches and undoes them with a little pop. In each square are oval green tablets. "Do you know what these are called?"

You shift through memories for a placement, an idea…no, a name. "Risperidone," you tell her. "It's Risperidone…Risperidal…whatever pharmacists call it."

Sumire nods. "Either way. Now, how many are you supposed to take?"

"Once or twice a day while increasing dosage from two milligrams to four milligrams." You huff irritably. "Come on, Sumire, why do you bother? Of course I know all this—"

"Look at the space for today," she snaps, indicates the pill box with an optical gesture. You do as she says, and you study the square for Tuesday. Sunday and Monday are empty.

"The tablets are still there." You look up at Sumire, disbelief worming greasily in your guts. "But…I could have sworn…you were right there…." Swallow down a rock-hard lump. "You said you'd watch me."

"You told me you were fine, you didn't want me standing in the doorway when you took it." She closes the box, pins it to her lap with slender, white fingers. "I believed you."

"I wasn't trying to be mean about it. It's just...I feel uncomfortable when I have eyes at the back of my head. It's as if you don't trust me. You know, that I wouldn't do the deed."

"There's no sense in us ruminating what can't be changed," says Sumire. "What's done is done. We have failed each other."

"No one told you had to supervise me," you say irritably. "No one said you had to be a yes man and cater to a mental fuck-up."

"I 'cater' to you because Miyanaga-san is too busy drafting the divorce papers with her attorney to see to your responsibilities. I 'cater' to you because nobody else in Japan knows I drive us fifteen minutes every two weeks to the nearest pharmacy to pick up your prescription." She inhales a deep, quivering breath. "I 'cater' to you because _you're my friend_, and friends look out for each other."

You smirk. It makes you want to laugh at the irony lurking behind that label. "Some friends we turned out to be."

"We'll get through this," Sumire says quietly as she rests her head against the back of the sofa. "Whatever happens to us…to you…we'll find a way."

You glance at the door; it remains unoccupied as it was not so long ago. Comforted with the fact that the rest of Team Torahime won't be present at this moment, you shift your body around until your feet are on the armrest your head was just on. You lower yourself and lay that very head in to the cushion of butterfly hips, bury your nose in the retreating tide that's Sumire's abdomen and _breathe_. Breathe slow and deep and don't let go.

You feel her hand twine through your hair, curious as one who steps out into the world for the first time in her very short life, unknown to the roundness of the blue sky, the infinite expanse of snow-capped mountains, rolling green hills, and a field of blooming wildflowers.

—_She smells just like_her_—_

"Teru?" says Sumire. "Did you say something?"

You tilt your face up and your lips puckers with the motions of words that may be 'no, I didn't' or something along the likes of 'nah, I'm just mumbling to myself, it's cool.' You open your mouth, and then you freeze.

"Teru?" Sumire says again, concern seeping on her tongue. "Are you okay?"

You blink. Then blink again.

"Onee-chan?" Saki asks; twin pools of burgundy bearing down on you. You see yourself reflected in those eyes—_your eyes_—and you are…scared? Confused? Worried? You can't tell.

The waters are too dark and fathomless.

You shake your head and burrow it deeper in the girl's musk-heavy flesh. "It's…it's nothing. I'm fine. Don't worry about it."


End file.
